


Mercy

by Peradion



Series: Fix You [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Psychological Torture, Spy can't function, Spy has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, haha dead scout goes brrr, idk what tags to use lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:55:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29861907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peradion/pseuds/Peradion
Summary: Spy and Scout are kidnapped. It doesn't end well.
Relationships: Engineer/Spy (Team Fortress 2), Scout/Sniper (Team Fortress 2)
Series: Fix You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785796
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> hi i'm not dead just sad lol
> 
> so this took me like, 2 years or so to write and it's a lil over 30 pages in google docs, please enjoy
> 
> please tell me if it needs work, I wanna improve ;;w;;
> 
> may eventually break it up into chapters lmao

It was supposed to be a normal day. The sun sat at its throne in the cobalt sky, over the badlands of New Mexico, just like any other day. Nothing strange. Hardly anything out of place. Nothing but the sweltering heat of summer. Nothing but the fight for their lives in a familiar haze of kicked-up sand and bloody mist. 

It’d been so long since everything on the battlefield went to hell. Ages since the two woke up in a filthy little cell, confused and disoriented, utterly abandoned to their own questions. It was stupid to think they could’ve succeeded, the way they went about it. If Scout had been a bit more patient, a bit less aggressive, a bit less— _ him _ , perhaps it would’ve ended better. Spy would’ve gotten back the stuff, without needing to go back and save the young man. Of course, no one could’ve planned the complications that arose—how the respawn machine would be utterly destroyed, with no hope of repair. 

Everyone tried their best, of course, when Teufort had been ambushed outside of the allotted battle times. It wasn’t like everyone just decided to stop trying and lay down to wait for death. It was fine, for a while. Everything was fine. In fact, it seemed as though everyone would come out victorious in the end. The horizon was bright. The future held good tidings. 

Scout should never have gotten himself stuck the way he did, following after Spy. There were a great many things Scout shouldn’t have done as it was, but this—this earned him the title of King Idiot of 1968. And Spy, as unrelenting as he was, as cold-hearted as he could be, couldn’t just leave him to the mercy of their attackers. Perhaps that earned him a title as an idiot, too. Had the Frenchman had any say, had he known Scout would follow him head first into battle, he would have gladly forced him to stay with the others. 

But here they were. Ages of rotting in a cell after the failed attempt to get back what had been lost. Starving. Desperate for showers. Bloodied and still putting up a fight. 

“...Y’know, if my brothers were here, they’d give me a lotta shit for losin’ a fight like this,” His voice was rendered little more than a snarl, “I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em when they come back, I swear.” They both were acutely aware of how serious Scout had been. 

“With what? How would you kill them?  _ Talk them to death _ ?” the Frenchman snapped, searching his pockets—every pocket, every hiding place he could find—for something, anything that would help their predicament. 

“Hey,  _ fuck you, man! _ I didn’t ask to be in this mess!” The enraged Bostonian roared, pacing in the tiny cell impatiently. “All I wanna do is kill these fuckers, go home, and eat some fucking chicken. Is that so much to ask?” 

“Would you  _ shut up _ ?” the Frenchman would snap, “Before we kill anyone, we need to have another plan.” 

“Don’t you tell me to shut up,” The scout would aggressively punch the wall, only to suck in a breath and recoil. This would earn a condescending chuckle. “Why are you so calm, anyway, dipshit? You know they’re gonna do some really fucked shit to us—”

“Scout.” Spy turned his gaze to the panicking man, a deathly serious expression written on his face. “I’m not going to let them torture us. If you don’t calm down, they’ll respond with violence.”

“Let ‘em, then! Let those fuckers try it! I’ll smoke  _ every last one of ‘em _ !” His voice bounced off the walls—and as though summoning the devil and his underlings, their captor would appear. 

He was of average height, maybe. Perhaps a bit on the shorter side. He resembled Dell quite a bit, actually—a fact that always unnerved Spy whenever he spotted him. No goggles, though—and there was an absence of the secret scar Dell had done so much to hide. He was a tiny bit on the heavier side. Clearly not him, but—

“Now what’s all the ruckus about, boy?” 

The voice was exactly the same. Or, that’s how it sounded to Spy, anyway—

“Look, buddy, we dunno what you want, but we’re sick of waitin’.” 

“Oh.  _ You’re _ sick of waiting!” the sarcastic chortle permeated their captor’s chapped lips. “How rude of us! Why didn’t you just say so?”    
  
“ _ You makin’ fun of me? _ ” Scout’s voice lowered into a threatening growl. The southern man just smiled at him. 

“I’m making fun of you as much as you’re wasting my time,” Dell’s doppleganger does not falter. His striking viridian eyes meet Scout’s own azure hues in a menacing bid for power, bore deep into his soul to see every piece of him. But Scout was a stubborn man. He glared right back, ever chasing the thrill of dominance over the adversary that came to him. “Me n’ my buddies have been waitin’ seven days for you to tell us what we need ta know. Frankly, we’re gettin’ bored.” 

“You know what’s  _ really _ boring? Being stuck in a fuckin’ cell, starving, with nobody to talk to but a short fattie and his boy-toys, or some loser in a fancy suit.” 

The wolf-like smile only widened in response. There was a moment of tense silence. 

“...Take him for more interrogation,” he ordered of his dregs—and they obliged, of course, ever the devoted servants. “If he don’t talk, feel free to use the Tucker Telephone—but go easy. We just need information.”    
  
It did not take much to subdue the starving man—even in his rage, he lacked the strength to react the way he’d said he would. He was silent all the way down to the room. And he stayed there, for ages—the sun would rise and fall twice more before Scout was dragged back by his arm, a faraway look having crawled onto his face. Their captor led the way, of course, and oversaw the way his dregs had thrown open the door and tossed Scout right back into the cell. He didn’t get up right away. The door was closed and locked, then. 

“I gotta say, I’m a bit surprised—you were pretty cooperative this time. Still didn’t tell me shit, but at least you didn’t make it harder for us. I guess it’d only be fair for Ol’ Gus ta let ya eat,” The captor—Gus was  _ his  _ name, Spy presumed—was not smiling this time. In fact, he looked rather deflated— _ apathetic, actually.  _ “It’ll come when it’s ready. Sit tight, fellas,” 

With that, he was gone. Spy waited, silently, until he was sure he’d slinked away into the shadows, back into his little office, wherever that was. Once he had been certain that the two had been alone, he took to Scout’s side on the floor, and turned him over. White as a ghost. 

It was a frightful while—days, actually—before Scout finally could fully bounce back, pertinacious in his resolve—that these walls would not,  _ should not _ , hold him the way they did. Despite warnings, despite all Spy had done to attempt to dissuade him, the Scout continued on with his plan. He was lucky, in the beginning—Scout had lost enough weight that he could sneak through the vents, and to his surprise, he was able to take a couple steps out into the light of day. But he was caught, still. Within arm’s reach of freedom, only to be dragged right back into the lion’s den. 

And Spy could hear it. The commotion that came with the whole ordeal—how Scout screamed and shouted and fought on his way back into the building. They dragged him—yes, dragged the weakened man—through the halls, back to the punishment rooms, back to the interrogation rooms. Gus mocked every scream with a gleeful, twisted grin on his round face. Spy only had a glimpse of him as he was dragged down the hall, but he knew what had happened. And he was sure of what was about to happen. 

_ SLAM. _

Silence. The building was never this silent—and Spy, though not particularly unperturbed about the silence itself—strained his ears to hear what was happening. But for several minutes, he only heard the faint, muffled voice of his captor. There were only occasional words he could make out. 

"Pretty dumb of you...wanna run that bad? ...Asshole...make sure…again!" 

_ THUMP. _

Silence again, but only for a much shorter time. 

Spy would never forget the screams of agony echoing in the halls. He closed his eyes, but he knew what had been happening. But no matter what he did, all he could envision was the boy getting his teeth kicked in, every bone in his body broken, all dreams stomped into tiny, tiny shattered fragments. 

Shut it out. That was all he could do now, in his weakened state. 

“Oh, dear god, someone  _ help me _ —!”

_ Everything would be fine,  _ he told himself,  _ He will live— _

“ _ Please, someone  _ **_help me_ ** !”

Spy sucked in a breath, unable to do more than listen, defeated. This screaming was so much different than any he’d heard from the boy before. This was significantly more fearful. More agonal. Occasionally broken up by pained sobs, as though he were a child again, being beaten by his brothers. When he was returned to the cell, he was quiet, limp in the arms of one of the men who had caught him, dragged like a ragdoll. Gus, of course, with bloodied knuckles, would join the trip back to the cell.   
  
Spy immediately shifted, despite how the lack of sleep left him utterly exhausted and lightheaded.    
  
“Ah-ah-ah,” Gus snarled, reaching for the pistol at his hip as though warning the Frenchman, “Stay right there,” 

In shame, Spy obeyed, if reluctantly—easing himself back into his seated position. He trained his gaze on the men, as if daring them to try something. The cell door was opened, and Scout was tossed onto the cold, hard floor. Again. Just as he was several days before. 

“Now listen,” There’s a slight chuckle on the edge of each word, “You’re really testing our patience. We’re getting pretty sick of your stubborn attitudes, but we’ve been kind enough to let you reconsider your options. After that last stunt, though...” Gus’s smile faltered. There was something unhinged in those fucking eyes. He took the pistol from his hip, and tossed it to the floor. “Ya wanna leave so bad? Y’ain’t gonna leave ‘till you either cooperate or die. So I wanna see who chooses the easier way out.” With that, he exited, locked the door, and disappeared once more. 

Spy frowned once they were gone—one of many deep frowns. He slowly got up, and moved toward the scout, easing him out of the awkward position. He rolled him onto his back, as he had days before, checked his pulse, surveyed the damage he took. His eye was swollen shut, with a terrible terrible bruise. His nose was broken. He lost a tooth—surprisingly, only one—and there was a laceration in his face, likely from being hit with the butt of a gun. The Frenchman did not leave him on that cold floor—not like that. He propped him up against the wall, at least. He would awake several hours later.

“What…?” Scout began, his voice groggy. The pain must’ve made him pass out. He attempted to shift, tried to take a breath, but the panic was already rising. “M-my legs,” He didn’t immediately burst into panicked hyperventilation, though every breath teetered on the edge of hysterics. “Why can’t I feel my legs…!?” 

“Scout,”

“My freakin’ legs! I can’t feel my freakin’ legs!  _ What happened _ —!?” 

“Scout—!”

“Oh, my god, this can’t be happening. You have to be  _ freakin’ _ kidding me. This isn’t  _ freakin’ happening _ !” A sob wracked Scout’s body. He shifted, some, or at least tried to—only for all hope to be dashed. His knees no longer bent. His legs moved not a centimeter. It felt as though he simply had been bisected, or had his legs once more blown off. He didn’t care about the pain throughout the rest of his body—how his head ached and his chest was inflicted with a sharp pain each time he took a breath in. It no longer mattered that his nose was broken, or he’d lost a tooth, or his right arm had been dislocated. It was more about the lack of feeling, than it was about where it hurt. 

“Scout, you need to  _ calm down _ !”

“ **_My legs_ ** —!” He sobbed pathetically, doubled over in absolute agony, struggling to breathe through the absolute panic attack that overtook him. 

The spy watched him for a moment, stunned. Poor Scout had never cried so pathetically in front of him, not since he was three, waving goodbye as the Frenchman left for the final time. Those cries triggered something in him—and it forced Spy to act, give in to the instincts all fathers have. He tried, as futile as his tries had been, to distract him. Get him to take deep breaths, and recompose himself so they could try to find a way out again. Or at least treat the wounds that could be treated. But Scout was absolutely inconsolable. He cried and cried, devastated, in agony, until he finally passed out again. He slept for a whole day, following.    
  
Gus didn’t come back for a long time following. He largely ignored their existence entirely—even forgoing the food rations. The two only received the occasional rusty tin water bowl to drink from. It seemed even the rats forgot about them, for they scurried across the floor less and less. 

Spy, unused to the silence from the Bostonian, found himself filling the silence with his own mumbling. With soft words muttered in French over a great many things. When the water would come, Spy ensured that the injured boy would receive plenty. That he would not want for more. 

“It’s over, Spy,” Scout finally broke his silence, voice rendered a mere whisper. “It’s over, isn’t it? We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Spy grumbled, tin bowl in hand. “Drink your water. You’ll be fine,” 

There were moments in the silence between them that Spy spent thinking of all possibilities for escape. Too dangerous to send Scout through the vents again—and he was too broad shouldered to fit. They had confiscated his disguise kit after his last attempt, and the cell was plexiglass, so there was no reaching through, stealing the identity of his captors, even if he had the energy.

“Spy,” His voice cracked from lack of hydration, chapped lips splitting open. No point, anymore, he supposed. His eyes were empty, staring blankly at a spot on the floor—was it blood or rust? He hadn’t the foggiest clue. His future was no longer viable—as though someone had taken his night sky and painted over the stars that guided his way. Even the sky seemed to pity them—a massive storm had rolled in the night before, weeping for the both of them. “I’m not gonna make it out of this.”

“ _ Don’t say that _ ,” Spy snapped, attempting to clean the scabbed over, bloody wounds on Scout’s face. “You’ll make it. You’ll be fine if you just listen to me. If you listen to me, I’ll get you home to your mother. Now hold still,”

The gun. He’d looked it over so many times, and been through the possibilities in his head. Perhaps he could lure in a guard, and shoot him—steal any extra ammo.  _ But how would he lure in the guard? _ What if he had nothing? Then what? Beat them with the handle of the pistol until they no longer move? And what if he’s surrounded, with nothing? He can only fight for so long. 

“ _ Please _ , I can’t let Ma see me like this, Spy,” His voice hardened, in every attempt to cover up the distinct quiver in his voice that signalled his crying. His body had started wasting. “She don’t need to see what happened to me. It ain’t fair to her.” 

“Jeremy,” Spy began, an annoyed glare clear on his face as he took a sip of his water ration. “What do you propose we do, then?”

Scout’s voice died away before it began. He slumped against the wall, a despairing, broken look on his young face. He took a breath, unable to look at Spy, the shame rising and inflating in his aching, sorrow stricken chest. 

Gus came back that night, finally, after what felt like years of waiting. He just stood there, for a few minutes. Smiling. Spy focused in on him, keeping a plain disposition about him. He slowly sipped his water—the bit of it he’d saved for himself, after surrendering a portion of his rations to Scout—as he met his eyes. His eyes travelled over his form, pausing, upon noticing a distinct, strange mark upon the back of his hand. He dared not question, nor come closer. He would have preferred not to wake Jeremy—though it would have been nice to hear him rambling away about nothing. 

“Lookin’ cozy in there,” The smooth voice was too familiar. Low, husky, as if this were  _ so pleasurable  _ to watch. “How’s the kid?” He stepped closer to the plexiglass, and against better judgement, Spy did the same. Not too close, though. He could see that symbol so much more clearly. 

“He’s fine.” The words left through gritted teeth, blazing eyes boring into the shorter male. He did not recoil when Gus’ eyes bore right back into him. 

“Really? ‘Cause, uh—” his eyes flicked to the boy resting in the corner. “He’s lookin’ ready to become rat food right ‘bout now.” He flashed his brilliant white teeth in that wide, fox-like smile. “...You know, I thought you were supposed to be some of the best mercs in the world. It’s kinda staggering, how  _ easy  _ it was to break him.” 

“Funny how you say it was easy, when it took so long for you to succeed. Remind me why I should care,” 

“Now, now, bud—better watch that tone o’ yours. I could make things much worse for you,” Gus didn’t seem to miss a beat. “The gun ain’t been used yet. I suggest you use it soon. It’d be a lot better for ya if ya did,” 

Spy scoffed, and would have spat at the man had there not been the plexiglass between them. 

“Don’t think I don’t observe you, Gus,” There’s a dangerously calm tone in his voice, one that almost gives Gus pause. Almost. “Your tactics consist of distractions—you disrupt, harass, and rattle in hopes we’ll be too scared to keep our secrets. But we both know you made a grave mistake. One you’re struggling to make up for,” 

Gus’s smile fell. Spy continued. 

“You don’t know where to go next. All your half witted attempts to gain intelligence from us have failed—yet you continue to pretend as if more torture will save you from your own shame.” 

There was silence between them. Then Gus smiled again. 

“Very clever. This is why I like you.” He brought up his hand to rub his bearded chin, as if intentionally showing the mysterious mark. Clearly, now, Spy knew what it was—a branding. Ouroburos, encircling a pyramid. The skin was discolored, though it was clearly an old wound. “Still, better be careful. Or you’ll be seein’ more of me.” 

With that, the man was gone again. 

The open wounds were red and swollen, and wouldn’t heal the next time Spy had checked. Scout trembled so viciously that he couldn’t hold onto anything. 

“I can’t take it anymore.” his raspy voice was so low, Spy had to lean in close. 

“What?” 

“Please. Please, just—put an end to me.” 

“If I get you to Medic, you will not die. I will get us out of here—” 

“I’ll die either way, Man,” Scout’s eerie, even voice reverberated off the walls. It gave Spy pause. “If it ain’t the infection, if I don’t starve to death, then...I’ll just do it myself. Please.” 

Mouth agape, Spy looked him up and down. His heart ached for the son he couldn’t save, no matter his choice. He couldn’t put on the mask of indifference this time. He looked away, scoffing, pushing away the desire to give in. He paced the cell, searching once more for weaknesses, for anything that could be used to escape. 

He kept looking for all possible ways out. There was a window, but it was too high to reach—and from what Spy had seen, there were bars, anyway. His shoulders remained too broad for the vents, no matter how much weight he lost. No matter what, he could not trick the passing guards. And every day he spent agonizing, going over his years upon years of experience as a spy in search of a solution, Scout’s begging would grow more and more desperate. Until one day, when the Frenchman had approached to check on the wounds, Jeremy grabbed at his arm, and held, with a trembling hand, as tightly as he could. 

“I’m sorry,” Jeremy’s voice was weak, cracking, but even in tone.

“...Pardon?” 

“I’m sorry for everything. For not listening, and talkin’ too much. I’m sorry for getting too cocky or distracted sometimes. I’m sorry for goofin’ off all the time. I...I’m sorry for being such a bad son.”

Spy recoiled in surprise, eyes wide. Then dread filled his entire being. He knew. He knew the truth—god, how he wished he didn’t know. He would’ve lived a normal life, for the most part. Maybe gone to college, gotten a good job. Then he wouldn’t be dying in agony. Then he wouldn’t be anything like Spy—leaving his life behind like that. 

The Frenchman's walls crumbled some, smouldering in the wake of despair as the inevitable choice began to creep up on him, watching his son as he writhed in agony on the floor. Watching as his poor son struggled just to breathe, too broken for Spy to fix. 

“Jeremy,” He couldn’t even reach out. He couldn’t even hold poor Jeremy in his final moments. 

“I can’t live like this,” Scout began, heartbreak bleeding into every word. “...I need you to shoot me.”

Spy glanced at the gun, growing anxious, himself, his mind racing, struggling to figure out what he must do. Poor Scout, his son, the child of his lover’s body and the flesh of his own soul, would be in agony for another few days, at best. Though just an estimate, it was no better than this moment. His breathing grew more and more constricted as the rest of his body failed.

“Jeremy, I…”

“ **_Please_ ** ,” Jeremy's pleading voice shot through Spy's heart—and he hiccupped, sniffled, struggled to spit the words out. “I don’t wanna be in pain anymore.” 

For a moment, Spy almost felt twenty years younger. He sat with Jeremy, wrapped a somewhat awkward arm around him, and held him close. It was like Scout was three years old again, crying over his skinned knees, reaching for his father's comfort. The only difference was, there was finally someone to offer it to him. 

“There, there,” Spy's frequently harsh features, his intense expression, his hardened heart softened in the wake of their new reality. “Try to relax.” 

“Please help me,” Jeremy managed, taking ragged, gasping breaths. His lungs must have suffered damage from the beating that left him paralyzed. " _ Please _ …!" He choked on his own tears. 

"It's okay, Jeremy," Spy gently rubbed circles into Scout's back, “I’ll take care of you,”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Scout’s voice broke into pieces. “Sniper n’ I were gettin’ real close. We talked about—” he paused, taking a sharp inhale of breath at the sudden pain that shot through his chest. “—Moving in together n’ everything. Y’know, once this was all over. Said he’d t-take me to meet his parents,” 

A bitter laugh escaped Scout's chapped lips, bringing a hand to his face in an effort to halt the urge to cry. The corners of his mouth turned up some in a soft smile—only to fall back into a despairing frown upon realizing that all that had been promised, all he'd wanted, would never come to be. His lower lip quivered, and he took a shaky breath as the tears threatened to roll down his face. Spy—gripped by sympathy for the boy—sat in silence, a listening statue as Jeremy spoke, as he fought through each broken sob. He listened—in a testament to Scout's memory. Someone would remember. Someone would be there. He didn't have to go lonely into this fight.

Time passed. Neither know how much. It couldn't have been too long, could it? No longer than an hour, if that. 

Silence. 

Spy almost cringed at the sudden quiet that overcame them, and how even just the drop of a pin could shatter it. He would be the one to break it. 

“Are you ready, Jeremy?” 

The Bostonian nodded.

The Frenchman stood, and left his spot to retrieve the small pistol, glinting under the fluorescent lighting, the sight of which he had never hated more. He took it into his hand, heart beating wildly against his ribcage—and the weight. Only three pounds—but it felt like fifty. 

“I’m sorry,” Spy began, carefully checking the cylinder to confirm the number of bullets.

_ Please let it be full,  _ he thought,  _ Please let them be dumb enough to forget to take all the bullets out.  _

His hopes were dashed, upon seeing a single bullet resting in its space. 

“For what?” Jeremy took a deep breath—as deep as he could manage while dying of infection, anyway—and raised a questioning brow. 

“...For leaving.” his voice, normally a pleasing baritone, was reduced to a soft, almost heartbroken murmur. “I have never regretted anything more in my life than leaving.” 

Jeremy wiped his eyes, sniffling pathetically. 

“Then...why the hell’d you leave?” he challenged, “If you regret it so much, why did you go?”

Spy returned to his son, almost unable to gather the courage to point the gun at him. Arms limp by his side, he stared at Scout—and his heart almost stopped right then and there. Could he do this?

“...Everywhere I went, I brought danger.” He exhaled a long sigh, “Being a spy means making enemies. And if you didn’t know who I was, then you would’ve been safer.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened some, and he pressed his lips into a thin line. He tore his eyes away from Spy’s face, and in an attempt to abate his lamentation, focused elsewhere. In a moment of contemplation, he found himself staring at the cracks in the floor, at the walls and the plexiglass that would never afford him an ounce of mercy. Jeremy shakily wiped his eyes. 

“It’s okay,” Jeremy finally responded, attempting to smile again. “...I trust you, Dad.” 

The Frenchman paused, the ghost of a gasp hanging on his lips as he listened to those words. Twenty years, and he hadn’t been referred to by that name. But to his despair, it would be the last time he ever heard it. 

“... I’ll keep you in my thoughts, Son.”

Jeremy cracked the smallest of smiles, for the briefest of moments—and closed his eyes as he braced for the merciful end, the sweet release. 

The gun went off. 

_ Pop. _

Spy, resigned, slowly lowered his arm. The pistol was still smoking. He slumped against the wall, eyes trained on what was left of Jeremy. He didn’t seem to even register as the gun slipped from his hand and fell to the floor in a clatter. Silence. For what felt like years, he sat in his own offspring’s blood, waiting for the captors to come back. Waiting, waiting, waiting for his own end. 

But it never came.   
  
No cigarettes. No smoke to mask the scent of rotting flesh as the hours turned to days, with no promise of change.    
  
_ Pretend it isn’t there _ , he told himself.  _ Pretend long enough and you’ll be convinced.  _

They finally came back—what? A week? A couple of days? Years?—later. Gus had not come with them. They stared with fierce gazes, grabbed him up without mercy. He would find that he could not even comprehend being moved. 

They circled around him like sharks—a rather useful tactic of intimidation to get what they came after. The Frenchman sat stoic at the table, hands folded on the cool surface—and he stared into the distance. He knew that his captors tried to engage him, and force him to speak—he could see their mouths moving and vaguely hear their voices. But all he could hear, all he could think of was the look on Jeremy’s face and those final words. The despairing resolution he’d reached, the tear stains on his otherwise unspoiled skin. And all he could think was,  _ Why? Why did he surrender himself to a cause-less fight? _ And it was worse, still, to know how much potential he had—he may have run away, but it didn’t mean he didn’t keep tabs at all on the life he left behind—considering his affinity for baseball. 

“I can’t believe ya did it,” Gus’s voice was dripping in venom, and his thick southern drawl was made thicker by the low rumble of his mocking laughter. “Ya actually shot him! Your  _ son _ ! You're a  _ cold _ son of a bitch, you know that?” 

It was a frightful thing, to be confronted with that reality again. He stared at the wall, into the void, and the void stares back with lifeless azure eyes, looking for the horizon that would never come again. His eyes shifted to another member, standing to Gus’s left side. He had the branding clear as day on his bicep, the same one he’d seen ages before. The one to his left had it on his face. 

“I shot the scout.” he echoed, his voice whittled down to a low, thick grumble, “What now, then?” 

“Ya killed yer son,” The man repeated, a bit louder, a devilish grin having crossed his own thin lips. “Your own flesh and blood. Y’know what that means?” 

Spy finally met his gaze, face locked in a calm, unfeeling expression—but his wet eyes, the barely visible tear stains on his skin gave him away. The wicked grin didn't fade. Spy was undaunted—and in fact, it meant little to him that they could very easily put a bullet in his head. 

“Enlighten me.” 

“You’re one of us now,” the man chortled, leaning close to Spy, as if asserting his dominance. “Once ya kill your blood, you're one of us.”

Spy quirked a brow in confusion. Gus, as if knowing every subtle cue, every little mannerism of Spy’s, played into the confused signal. 

“It’s how it works ‘round here—you wanna join, so ya kill a member of your family. Hell, you could kill multiple members if ya really wanted—we got more than a dozen family annihilators here. It tests your loyalty. We all had ta do it ta join—even me.” Gus rolled his shoulders back, and you could hear the loud crack. Spy could only stare. “You’re a special case, though. Most people do it for the sake of joining but—you didn’t. Y’see...I saw somethin’ in you the moment we cornered your lil’ team. Somethin’ I thought would benefit our group. And you killed your kid on our property. We ain’t above forcin’ you to be part of us—so that’s precisely what we’re doin’.”    
  
Spy studied him closely, unblinking. 

“If ya ain’t got any questions, I guess it’s time for the initiation,” He turned to another droog of his. “Send ‘im in.”

As if on cue, another stranger entered the room, sturdy and tall, almost like Heavy—though this man hardly looked as familiar. He held a neutral disposition, staring right through Spy as if reading his soul. Spy showed no fear, didn’t even tear his gaze away from the wall—he could make out very faint blood stains that time had quietly worn away—as the small group seemed to close in on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he got a glimpse of the red hot iron in this new man’s hands. He didn’t want to see in detail what it would do to his skin. 

“Open up his shirt,” 

In a moment, foreign hands lunged at him, and ripped his shirt open with ease, revealing his pale chest—of course, this earned an almost startled grunt. In a knee-jerk reaction, he tried to cover up again—only to be restrained by the same foreign hands that revealed his skin. And suddenly, he couldn’t break free of their hold. He had managed to lose some muscle mass. 

“Are ya ready?” 

Clearly, now, Spy could see the symbol they intended to give him; Ouroboros, infinitely eating his own tail, surrounding a pyramid symbol. It was large, unmistakable, and it would haunt him as surely as the memory of this entire ordeal until his dying day. The southern-born man stepped closer, pressing the heated iron into the skin on Spy’s chest, right in the center, where he’ll see it every time he undresses. An agonal scream ripped through Spy’s throat as the brand was pressed into his flesh, and the pain was so immense, he couldn’t take a breath. But even above the screaming, the despairing crying out in French—above the desperation in Spy’s voice, came the heartless cackling. 

“Hold ‘im down, boys!” there was a sense of wild glee in the brander’s eyes, “Make sure he doesn’t try to kick me!” 

Spy remained in place, held tightly, involuntarily shedding a waterfall of tears as the brand was pushed further and further into the skin. He could’ve sworn he passed out at some point, for only a few seconds. 

In what felt like decades later, it finally ended, and he was left breathless, exhausted, trembling. The world spun around him, and he tried, really, he tried to regain his breath. 

“That should do it,” that southern voice, laced with an unsurmounted level of cheer, would chime, “Welcome to the club,” 

The foreign hands left his arms, and he slumped in his seat. He had no will to even look up, to even stand and fight through this immeasurable pain. He drifted occasionally in and out of consciousness—and as a result, lost several chunks of time. One moment, he was in the interrogation room—then he was being dragged down the hall. Then on the floor of his cell—beside Scout’s pale corpse, missing a piece of his head. 

He took a shaky breath.

“Jeremy…?” 

He was inanimate. It only took a second for Spy to blink—and suddenly, his son’s head was turned to him. Eyes still open, mouth agape in an eternal silent scream. Another blink and he was back to the way he’d been—slumped over in the opposite direction. 

“Lights out, Partner,” The brander called out, giving no other warning before flicking the light off, leaving Spy in impenetrable darkness to rot. For the past seven or eight days—by now, he stopped counting—he’d at least had the comfort of another person’s breathing to remind him he at least wasn’t going to come out of it alone. But here he was, marooned in the darkness of his own heart, evidence of his guilt lying lifeless beside him. At some point, with his only light being that of the moon through a small window he couldn’t reach, he found himself drifting off to sleep, only to be awoken later in terror. 

Nightmares. All night. No rest.

The third time he woke to the sound of the gunshot, to the sight of his grief and guilt, he was resolute in that the waking world was substantially better to stay in—and thus, he didn’t go back to sleep. When morning officially came, he was dragged from his cell again. No end in sight. 

“We ain’t gonna stop doin’ our thing ‘til you give us information,” Gus’s voice was thick with amusement, still, as he dragged the Frenchman away from the cell, “But we assume you’d wanna be in a cleaner cell than the one with your son’s body. Kinda made a mess there, bud,” 

The new “cell” wasn’t so far from Scout’s final resting place. It certainly looked more comfortable—a bed in the corner, a larger window with bars on it, so he may see the outside world. Gus, almost beside himself in pride, smirked at the Frenchman. He wrapped an arm around his shoulders. 

“Still can’t believe ya did it,” A dark giggle escaped his lips, “You killed your boy. You looked him in the eye, and just went ahead and shot him in the head!” 

Spy visibly tensed again at the mention of that event, raising his gaze from the bed to the wall. 

“It don’t feel good, huh? Killin’ your blood?” The southern man boldly nudged the Frenchman. “You weren’t close with him, I’m guessin’. Eh, family ain’t everything. It goes away, eventually. The dirty feeling, I mean.” 

“Family isn’t everything.” he mindlessly, emotionlessly echoed, feeling for his cigarette case to make sure it was still there. 

“I know it feels bad...Dominique, is it?” 

Spy froze upon hearing his name. He white-knuckled his cigarette case, blank gaze focused on a spot on the floor. A random spot. Trying to find some reality to escape to.

“It feels bad, doesn’t it? Losing a son. Havin’ nightmares? The cameras see you writhing in your sleep, you know.” He placed an almost reassuring hand on Spy’s shoulder. “It goes away eventually, bud. Personally, it only took me a couple months to get over it—but I know a couple of guys here who took years to get over it.” This was the first time he’d ever sounded understanding, in all the time Spy had spent in captivity. “‘Course, my son was a certified piece of shit. Lazy, ain’t worth a damn nickel—always complainin’ ‘bout life. It wasn’t a big deal for me but you—you’re different. I only talked my son into takin a leap off the roof, you straight up shot yours.” 

A chill ran down Spy’s spine. But no response came. 

“Now, we get it—for you, in your case, it wasn’t an easy decision. We’ll give you a lil’ while to sort yourself out before we get that info from ya. Give us the info, and you live.” he took his hand, pressing the hilt of the confiscated butterfly knife into his palm. “No need to be shy. And you know...if you really don’t wanna tell us, you can save us the trouble and end it all.” 

“End it all…” his hand tightened around the knife, gripping the handle tightly. The southern man pat his shoulder carelessly, before leaving his line of vision. 

“Just relax for a while. Take a load off. You’ve been plenty entertaining, so you’ve earned it.” 

Spy had nothing to respond with. He brought his knife up, carefully inspecting it, pondering the idea of release. He cursed himself for having forgone simply stabbing Gus. 

For whatever reason, he heard something in the distance. Footsteps, perhaps. And definitely the breaking of glass. Lots of gunshots. But he was too tired, too shaken to fully understand what was going on.

The next thing he knew, there was the familiar smell of burning flesh and eyes melting away. In his daze of exhaustion and starvation, he heard the men screaming in agony, and the roar of flames. To see Pyro standing in the doorway of the room, clad in his gas mask and flame-retardant suit, was almost like seeing God himself coming to save his eternal soul. But of course, it couldn’t be God. God would never forgive someone like him, had he been real. Pyro said something—it was muffled by his mask, but at this point, Spy could care less—as he approached, carefully wrapping an arm around him to help him out of the room. It was a pleasant surprise, given how unpredictable the other man could be. Even the attack on the men who had taken the two was a complete surprise. He was helped out of the room, still gripping his butterfly knife with a death grip.    
  
They passed by Gus, who still had the fire ax stuck in his head. Pyro paused to grab the handle, and rip the blade from his flesh with a wet squelch. Spy didn’t particularly give a shit that the blood splattered on his suit. It was already filthy. 

The storm was still raging, the same as yesterday when he was taken out of the god-forsaken building. He only stared at the muddy ground, his suit stained in Scout’s blood, still. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Everything was ringing. He couldn’t even make sense of anything anyone would’ve said to him. 

“Spy?” came a familiar voice, and for a moment, the pain returned to his branding mark. “Spy, are you okay? Where’s Scout?” 

Thunder clapped in the distance as the Frenchman slowly looked up, expecting to see the man who branded him, only to be confronted with the kind, goggled face of Dell Conagher, his lover. The Texan watched him, his face twisted in concern. Spy did not respond. It was then that Engineer could see his hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. His eyes held an unmistakable emptiness, lips curled into a frown. Dell’s face dropped as soon as the meaning of the look became apparent.

“SPY! Where is the scout? What have the commies done with him?” The Soldier attempted, then, for his attention, voice loud and commanding as it always had been. 

The Spy opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find the will to speak. But the words died away so quickly, drying up on the tip of his tongue.

“Oi,” he greeted, his voice gruff, as though warning of his impatience, “He’s alright, isn’t he?” he asked, but he still received no answer. Spy shakily reached for his cigarettes—thank Christ almighty that the rain could easily mask the tears rolling down his face—only for his hands to fumble and nearly lose grip of the case. 

In an attempt to offer comfort, Pyro rested a hand on Spy’s arm, saying something or other about it being okay to be honest—the only understandable thing he said in ages. It didn’t stop Sniper from stepping even closer, almost getting in Spy’s face. 

“Will you bloody  _ fucking _ answer us?” Sniper’s voice was low, gravelly, filled with an unspeakable rage. If Sniper started telling him off right then and there, Spy didn’t hear it. The world was spinning. He couldn’t even hold his cigarettes or find the heart to find his lighter. It was like everything quaked beneath him, threatening to swallow him whole and punish him for an eternity more. 

“...It was all I could think to do.” he finally answered, keeping his voice as even as possible. 

The group fell silent again for a brief moment. Pyro took his comforting hand from Spy’s body, taking a step back in absolute shock. But Sniper was already blowing up. 

Spy had not been expecting to be tackled to the ground. He also did not expect to hit his head so hard on the pavement that his vision doubled. He attempted to shield his face from the punches to no avail. The assault only stopped when the Aussie began to unsheath his kukri. 

This had to be the end. Spy’s end. The right end. The Frenchman closed his eyes, waiting for the killing blow, in hopes he’d go to his eternal rest in the burning, sulfury void for punishment. 

No more weight on him. He looked up, only to see the mountain of muscle that was Heavy, restraining the Australian—who thrashed in his grip, swinging his kukri with purpose. 

“ _ Tell us what happened, you bloody fucking french  _ **_pig_ ** !” Sniper howled. The thunder clapped again, “What the  _ fuck _ did you do!?” 

More foreign hands brought Spy to his feet again. The whole world spun. He could only blankly watch as Demoman stood before their comrade, trying whatever he could to calm the hell inside him. Stuck in a daze—a possibly  _ concussed _ daze—Spy spoke, in a clear, albeit almost trembling voice; 

“I shot Jeremy.” 

The air shifted. An unspoken, unanimous shock seemed to overtake them. The storm moved in. Sniper’s sunglasses were missing, a result of the scuffle—and in his eyes, a wild hatred had taken root. His heart had frozen up. Like he couldn’t grasp it. Disgust would follow the shock, as told by Demoman and Heavy’s faces. 

Soldier was having none of it. He stomped forth through the mud. 

“ _ TRAITOR!” _ Soldier’s voice ripped through the air in an enraged scream. “A good American doesn’t kill his fellow cadet!” Anything else he said following didn’t matter. He would have attacked, spewing hateful words towards the spy in his rage—but Heavy held him back as well. 

Engineer approached Spy, taking him by the arm, guiding him away as quickly as he could. Medic followed suit, a steadying hand rested on his shoulder. 

“Do you know where he is?” Engineer’s soft voice somehow seemed even louder than the rain. “Where his body is, I mean.” 

A chill ran down Spy’s spine, hearing that familiar voice—the familiar southern twang that no doubt would haunt his dreams. All he could do was shake his head. 

He lost some chunk of time. One moment, he was speaking with Engineer and Medic. The next, in what he would recognize as Medic’s office. At some point, in the frenzy of finding Jeremy’s body, and having to answer all the questions, Spy had actually passed out onto the pavement. He would wake up later, drenched in a cold sweat, reeling from the horrendous nightmares that had come to him in the time he’d passed out. 

“Ah, you’re awake!” Medic called from across the room, “Good. If you were out any longer, I would’ve started cutting you open and siphoning acid from your stomach.” he matter-of-factly stated, gripping his clipboard tightly, having taken a pageful of notes following the arrival back to the base. If he was joking—Spy hoped to God that he was joking—then it certainly didn’t sound that way. There was no laughter coming from the Frenchman's lips. 

“You’ve suffered quite a bit recently, haven’t you?” Medic clicked his tongue, going over the list of things he observed. “Moderate dehydration, moderate starvation, black eye, broken orbital bone—” the German man glanced at Spy’s quickly, as though checking to see if he could keep up with him, his face twisted into a cold, almost bored expression, “—a minor concussion—” he paused, looking him over, his face suddenly unreadable. Medic’s eyes could look nowhere other than the branding, at the way his skin had slightly discolored and blistered, how it was redder than the fires of hell. His face changed again, to that of slight shock at the extensiveness of the torture. He looked back to the list again. It wasn’t overly long—there’s only so much you can do to a person before they simply keel over and die on a filthy, blood-and-mud covered floor—but to see all he endured during that time there was an astonishing thing. 

Brought back memories, really.

“...Dislocated wrist, broken shoulder, fractured rib. What didn’t they do to you?” Medic fumbled for his words in that specific moment. But Spy remained silent, staring at the ceiling dimmed by the bright lights looming above him. For a moment, he could’ve sworn he was about to be lobotomized, to punish him for his crimes. If he can’t feel, can’t care for himself, then it would only be the beginning of what was meant for him. Perhaps it would even erase all memory of the son he killed. Maybe it needed to happen. 

“You should be all healed by the end of the day today,” he kept moving about the room, leaving Spy to follow him with his eyes. He didn’t have the energy to get up and protest. All he could feel was unease. In every corner of the room, he could swear, he faintly saw his son standing again, looking at him with those exhausted, lifeless eyes that sought out a horizon that left him long ago. He was so caught up in this illusion—this nightmare tinged with false hope—that he barely noticed that his balaclava was gone, and that his face was totally visible to the doctor. 

“For today, you must rest, eat, and drink.”

“I don’t want to eat,” he mumbled—but Medic could hear him. 

“You must eat something,” Medic asserted, “You’ll ingest something if I have to cut you open and manually place it inside you.” The German could at least say he tried to lighten the mood with half-jokes—but of course, the Frenchman simply exhaled a quiet sigh, closing his eyes again with the aim simply to forget he was alive. 

Eventually, Medic left him (not before he flipped switches to various machines, or checked his IV, or what have you) in the silence of the medical assistance room. Despite Medic’s (admittedly incredible) work and the fact that he could be healed as soon as by the end of the day, he resented the fact that he would need to stay in there. Where everyone goes for healing. 

When he was finally released from Medic’s office, he found himself wandering aimlessly. His room was close to Scout’s, so that was out of the question. Engie was likely busy with his machines. The rest of the team might avoid him—this was no big deal, in actuality—and in turn, leave the rec room empty. That had to be why it’d been so silent when he wandered down the adjacent hall. Perhaps, in the midst of what happened, of what he did, he could find peace in the silence of the rec room, if nowhere else. It was a rare occasion that the room would be completely empty or completely quiet. Perhaps now, he could find peace. It was only within five seconds of entering the room that his hopes were dashed cruelly, and buried in a shallow grave on the river bank. 

Sitting on the couch before a turned-off television was a silent Demoman, with a thoughtful expression on his face. He glanced up after a moment, realizing someone was in the room. His face was tired, his brow having furrowed some to almost express a mix of sadness and disgust. But upon seeing Spy, his face completely changed, in a way that Spy wasn’t sure how to place for the moment. The look just screamed a sense of disgust, and perhaps a nearly overwhelming sense of anger. He simply got up and left the room, leaving Spy by himself in the mess of it all. His stomach churned with an unholy sickness, threatening to throw up bile as punishment for the things that happened in that little cell. 

The next day, Miss Pauling came by. Complete with an announcement from the administrator. The air was entirely too somber when she stepped in, greeted only by the silence, the negative space left behind by a wayward phantom. Naturally, everyone was rounded up quickly for the “very important meeting.” It didn’t matter that Spy had been uncharacteristically late—Pauling was sure he knew more than enough. The group of vagabonds had been enough trouble as it was for Mann Co. and the administrator, given their sordid history—but these new mercs deserved an explanation. 

“Hello, everyone—I’m sure it goes without saying that recent events have caused a lot of chaos and confusion, so I’m here to debrief you on the kidnappers. Luckily, thanks to Pyro, you probably won’t have to worry about him again—but you never know when his influence will resurface,” The woman set down the fat manila folder on the table, marked “classified.” 

There’s an intensely morbid, thick silence overtaking the men. Waiting patiently for her to continue. 

“This—” she pulled out a file, complete with a picture of the wicked Southern man. “—Is Gus.” The silence changed. Dell visibly tensed upon seeing the man who wore that unhinged smile. “Gus is—was, the leader of a secret group hellbent on retrieving information about the Administrator. He has had a long, long history of attempting—and failing—to get what he wanted.” 

“What’d he want, exactly?” Dell’s voice filled the brief moment of silence following Miss Pauling’s introduction. The rest of the group was silent in anticipation of what the woman would say.

“Secrets. Anything she knew about anything, but—most of all, he wanted access to sensitive information regarding australium and the technology Mann Co. uses. Based on some evidence I gathered, he’d been stalking the fortress for weeks—maybe even months—to scope out the weak points.” She hesitated for a brief moment if only to check over the file quickly, confirm what she was about to say. “He’s had a history of doing things like this—”   
  
Her eyes flicked to the door as Spy entered the room, late, somewhat disheveled, and her lips tugged into a frown. 

“—not just to mercs, but to anyone who has access to the information he sought.” She cleared her throat, eyes always avoiding the two empty seats around the table. It wasn’t easy to remember that the excitable man was gone. “He’s known for leaving his victims with severe emotional trauma, if they survive. Just a few years ago, he kidnapped a Mann Co. employee—an  _ intern _ —and tortured him for information.” She frowned deeply, and suddenly the stress lines on her face were so much more visible. “He gathered information about him—intimate details—”

She kept glancing at Spy—taking note of the slight, slight, almost unnoticeable changes in his body language. He prided himself on being unreadable—understandable considering his line of work—but she knew. She could see it clear as day. 

“—But when it turned out he’d grabbed the wrong person, he intimidated him into silence. When he couldn’t take it anymore, the intern committed suicide.” 

“ _ Suicide? _ ” Came Dell’s awed response, face paled and twisted into a horrified expression. “Gus’s influence was that strong?” 

“Yeah. That’s what he does—he makes sure you’re under his thumb completely and totally. That’s what the whole group does, actually—they play with your mind. If they can’t get what they want, they use your own mind against you. They don’t let up until they’re certain it’s had an effect on you, regardless of what that means.” 

“Damn communists—always targeting good, American men,” the angry mutterings are unexpected—but Miss Pauling didn’t dare pay attention. “Fucking mind games,” 

“His pattern of action was carefully planned. Nothing he does is accidental—he sets you up to fall into those mental traps. He did it to this intern, he did it to his own family, now to our mercs. So, we need to take steps to prevent another tragedy, should another arise. Until we can figure out our next step, we will be in a ceasefire until further notice. I’ll be back again when some decisions are made,”    
  
Solider, in proper Soldier fashion, dismissed the team by shouting, “ _ Back to the barracks, maggots! _ ” 

  
Spy did not care to stay much longer than what was necessary. As soon as the meeting was concluded, he turned to leave, intending fully on returning to his smoking room—the farthest room from Jeremy’s bedroom. He could not stand the sudden look of pity he received from Heavy. He didn’t need his pity. He didn’t need anything from any of them, as far as he was concerned. He didn’t need the concerned gaze of Miss Pauling to—

“Spy.” 

Her voice halted all movement. He could not look at her. 

“I...I heard about what happened to you and scout.” There was something in her voice that just—no, no it wasn’t worth it to dwell on that. He couldn’t bring himself to move, but even hearing her voice was difficult. “Are you okay?” 

“...Oui, mademoiselle," Was the robotic answer. “I’ll be fine.” 

What a lie that was. 

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can talk to the administrator so you can go home if you need—”

“No. No, thank you.” He finally turned to look at her. He hated that look on her face. Concern. Pity, maybe? 

“...You can always call if you change your mind.” With that, she was gone. Like everyone else checking in and out of his life, at every second. He lingered, for a moment more—if only to listen to the settling of the building. To make sure each creak and crack happened the way it always did. To make sure he had not slipped again into another daydream. 

The ceasefire stayed in place for a long time. Longer than he expected, actually—perhaps because it took so goddamn long to rebuild the respawn machine. And in that time, it seemed the only teammates who still spoke to him were Medic—granted, mostly for purposes of treatment—and Engineer, who for whatever reason, had yet to leave him too. 

There were several nights in which he woke up screaming, fooled to believe that burns littered his entire body and that the son he showed mercy to was the one to leave them. That Jeremy, skin rotten and grey, part of his head still missing, mouth agape and eyes cloudy, would slowly shuffle toward him in the dark room, attempting and failing to form words. 

No one ever asked about the nightmares. For some reason, Spy was sure they knew exactly what they were about. From the way they looked at him when he entered the dining room on that first morning after he was well enough, he was sure they knew. Naturally, they must’ve heard the screams. They must’ve seen the lingering hints of fear on his face. The exhaustion in his eyes. The five o’clock shadow that he couldn’t bring himself to shave. 

But if they knew—Spy knew that they knew, but hypothetically speaking—they didn't particularly say anything. He received no greeting for that morning or the following mornings. As it should’ve been.

It's really odd how much a person can add so much to something as simple as breakfast. How their sudden lack of presence is offensive, if only because it was a break in the routine. A break in the routine that would last forever, really. And it was apparent that it hadn’t just affected Spy—a month after he returned, there was a change in the air throughout the entire base. Soldier hadn’t been so loud, within the last couple of weeks. He broke things impulsively, out of anger, but rarely raised his voice. Demo and Heavy more or less ignored Spy’s existence altogether out of disgust. Pyro and Engineer had both offered the supportive wave, from time to time—a comforting gesture, sure, but still. The lot of them sat around the table in silence, excluding Engineer and Sniper—the latter of whom was likely in his nest, or in his camper.

Spy did not sit. He looked into the dining room for a moment, only to turn away, ignoring every desire to enter the room and lose his temper, do whatever he could to throw their disgust right back into their faces. He had no desire to be flung into that silence again. Not unless he imposed it himself. Not when those knowing eyes trained on him every other moment, loathing his presence at the table. Perhaps he would just go, try and make himself feel better. Drink a little, smoke a little. Make himself as attractive as he’d always done before. It was a slow walk back to his bedroom—there was a battle in every footstep as his body screamed for him to turn back around and hide elsewhere. Having spent the beginning of this two or three-month-long stint sharing Dell’s bedroom, adoring and despising his touch, only to move into his smoking room, the dread had just built up into an almost unbearable pressure. 

He almost didn’t even realize he’d been passing that door. He paused, though, upon hearing the distinct sound of the television, the music of some 8-bit game. He listened, turning to look at the door, slightly cracked open. The lights were on. 

Hadn't they been off before?

And then the laugh. 

The cocky, victorious laugh that always left Scout's mouth when they won all those battles imposed by the administrator. 

"Now that's what I'm talkin' about!  _ Bonk! _ " The familiar, devious laugh grew more manic, and through the laughter, Spy heard the sounds of video game violence. " _ Un-freakin'-touchable!" _

_ No. _

It was a dream. Right? It had been a dream. But he couldn't step away. He nudged the door open, peeking in only to see the boy, seated on the floor, hunched over in front of that tiny television. 

"Jeremy," his voice was 

The boy did not react. It was as though Spy weren’t there, calling his name. Spy entered the room, then, hoping, praying that this wasn’t some trick of the mind. 

“Scout, I—” The boy ceased all action, but never looked at him. “I need to speak to you. I needed to—” He paused. The boy had made a sound. Or—rather perhaps he wasn’t so much a boy anymore. He shifted, turning to face him, and Spy recoiled, only to pull out his butterfly knife. 

Rotting Scout, his flesh partially eaten by the starving rats and the insects that weaseled their way into the cell. His eyes had practically just melted away. His head still missed a piece. His lips were gone, revealing nothing but the rotten, damaged teeth. 

“Scout,” he tried to speak his name—but the boy said nothing. Just stared, with the two empty sockets. The room game music kept going. “ _Stop looking at me_ _like that_ —!” 

“Spy?” 

That voice. His grip tightened on the now-open butterfly knife. 

“Dominique,” There was a soft hand that touched his shoulder. The bad dream was gone. The room was empty, the television untouched, lonely baseball on the floor. 

“Don’t—” A knee-jerk reaction, he sliced the hand clean open, earning a pained gasp. It took a moment to understand that, in fact, it hadn’t been Gus. The Spy turned, butterfly knife still thirsty for blood, only to be caught off guard upon finding it was just Dell. He couldn’t see through his goggles whether he was offended by the reaction or not, but—he didn’t like that the normally gentle, soft smile on his face had been replaced with a confused, hurt frown. 

“S-Spy—” The hurt expression on his face was too much to handle. It was clear now, that Spy had made a mistake. Dell’s voice trembled, gripping his bleeding hand tightly—only for the blood to drip onto the floor. “...Dom. What’re you doin’ in Scout’s old room…?” 

“I-I—” For the first time ever, Dominique couldn’t string together the right words. Dell’s face softened. He gently reached out, and gently placed his hand on Spy’s, easing it out of his grip. It did not take too much effort. “My apologies, I—”

“...I-It’s alright, bud.” he tried to smile at the Frenchman, despite how his flesh stung, how the disgusting feeling of the blood running down his knuckles, between his fingers. “No harm done. See? Just a lil’ scratch, h-heh. C’mon, lemme help ya out,” he offered his free hand, after closing and shoving the knife in one of the front pockets of his overalls. Spy took his hand. This was right. No Gus in disguise, back to finish him. He could tell just by the grip. By the soft, loving way Dell behaved toward him. The Texan, still holding his hand gently, led him to the door, out of the room, into the hallway. 

“You seem real tired. You been gettin’ any sleep?” They both knew the answer to that. But Dell—Dell didn’t look at him. His tone, still soft, held a suspicious knowingness. He tugged him along, until they were far from the room. By Medic’s office, in fact. 

“Why are you so concerned about me?” Spy’s words came out more forcefully than he intended—No matter how much he tried to hide the guilt in his eyes, Dell knew it was there—as he came to a halt beside the Texan. “I injured you.” 

“Aw, you know I’ve been hurt worse. It’ll hurt like a bitch for a sec, but I’m sure Medic’ll do a good job patchin’ me up. I shouldn’t have scared you like that,” He knocked on the door. 

“I should not have lost my composure.” His voice was somewhat monotonous, but the words didn’t have such a hard time exiting his lips. “Especially if I’m to keep my job,” 

“Keep your job? ...Oh. You didn’t hear,” 

“Hear what?” 

“The war’s bein’ called off.” 

Spy’s face fell, mouth agape in shock. The Badlands would see no more of him, it seemed. 

From what Dell had told him, the whole situation seemed to solidify a decision that had been sitting on the table. What with the rules being broken and all, and the irreversible death of an employee, he was sure it was just one of those things that would’ve brought the ultimate downfall. They were just working out final payments, and providing a final month or two to make arrangements. 

To his surprise, in the final couple of months, as if knowing what Spy’s next steps were, Sniper offered—no,  _ demanded _ to drive him all the way to Boston. Ordinarily, Spy would’ve vehemently refused, but—why bother now, of all times, to refuse? He had the money for his own private jet, but—that would be quite rude, wouldn’t it? To storm back into his ex’s life, with a fancy jet. To storm back into his ex’s life with a fancy jet, a new lover, and the news that their son has died. 

“You sure you don’t want me to go with you to Boston?” There’s an uncertainty lining Dell’s voice that Spy does not particularly like, that always comes out in times like these. Sweet Dell, always making sure everything was fine. That this was what he wanted. 

“It would be inappropriate for you to meet my ex-lover,” he answered, adjusting his tie carefully. “...Especially if I’m to tell her what I did,” 

“I know you’re feelin bad, but—” there was a soft exhale. “I’m not sure you goin’ with Mundy is the greatest idea.” 

“He had a plan to meet Scout’s mother, anyway,” he paused, running his fingers over the still tender spot on his chest. "It would be too out of your way for your own destination," 

“Fair ‘nough,” Engineer took his time packing up his tools, ensuring he had all his blueprints, all his notes, all the things he’d need when he returned home. But the air about him seemed to shift. “I just—I guess I don’t understand. You n Snipes ain’t ever really been friends—and you remember the way he roughed you up. Gave ya a concussion n’ everything,” 

Spy halted all movement in the mirror, exhaling a soft nasal sigh. 

“I’m just worried is all,” A moment of silence passed between the two of them. “I don’t want him to just shoot ya and leave ya for dead, or somethin’,” he gave a half laugh, trying to keep the air from getting too tense. 

“Don’t worry too much,” The calm tone in Spy’s voice almost made him sound like himself again. It sparked vague hope within the Texan. “I’m not easy to take out. Even if he tries it, I’ll make sure he regrets it.” 

Dell offered an understanding if concerned smile—and closed his toolbox. 

“I’ll hold ya to that, darlin’,” The good-natured chuckle that exited his lips was enough to put Spy at ease. The Frenchman turned away from the mirror, fixing his jacket. Dell came closer, and captured the Frenchman’s lips in a soft, soft kiss—an act that caught Spy entirely by surprise. "Just stay safe out there, ya hear?" 

Spy's hands rested on Engineer's face. More of him, more of the way he used to be, flickered through that steely expression of his. He leaned down and peppered his face with kisses. 

"Oui, mon amour," he murmured against the warm, pink skin, only to pull away seconds later. “I’ll stay safe.” His long fingers gingerly traced the side of his face, before disappearing entirely. “I shall find you, once I settle things with Marie,” 

Dell, in the afterglow of their moment of intimacy, nodded. He couldn’t seem to wipe the look of absolute lovesickness off his face. 

“I’ll be waitin’.” 

Like every goodbye, Spy was gone in an instant, a specter faded into thin air, barely connected to the world in which he lived. Unlike every goodbye, he had every intention of returning. Naturally, the mood changed just as soon as he left that room. His smile fell, eyes empty, no matter how hard he tried to hold onto the warm feeling he'd had. 

The camper was already waiting when he stepped outside, back into the heat of the New Mexico Badlands. He exhaled a sigh, bags in hand, as he approached. No words were shared, even as the Frenchman entered the camper. 

Sniper was not much for conversation. This was a known fact—he rarely spoke during breakfast or dinner before Scout’s death, and even less than that after. So it was no surprise that, for the first few hours of the trip, there’s an impenetrable silence. Every so often, the Aussie would flick the bobblehead, and watch from the corner of his eye as it swayed and shook.    
  
But, as soon as they hit their first traffic jam—no doubt because so many people were just trying to get home to their families, Sniper couldn’t help but start to hate this company he had. From the sound of his breathing, the occasional uncomfortable shift, to even just the smell of that fancy cologne, every little piece of him just pissed him off more. 

“It should’a been you, ya know,” Sniper's sharp voice cut through the tense silence, thick with the threat of unshakable rage. The burnt skin on Spy's chest stung horribly as it rubbed against the fabric of his suit. “It should’a been you that got shot.” The Australian gripped the steering wheel in a death grip, red, bloodshot eyes fixed in a hateful gaze behind the aviators on his face.

Fat raindrops slapped at the windshield relentlessly—oddly, it'd been raining quite often, for a desert in New Mexico. Spy, haunted by that night, listened without qualm to the seething insults Sniper had to say. He listened to his shaky breath, struggling to find the will to get the words out. It was just as well—he couldn't imagine having to sit with his lover's killer. Another moment of silence passed as Spy waited to see if anything more needed to be said. When Sniper did not continue, Spy swallowed the lump in his throat. 

“...I know,” he replied, unable to work up the nerve to look at the Australian. 

Sniper's eyes flicked briefly to Spy—still burning up inside, with the urge to scream, to beat Spy into submission. And yet, to hear those words stilled his heart, stole the power from any desire to scream and fight. 

“What?” his voice, little more than a low rumble, reflected the disbelief that gripped his soul. 

“I should’ve been the one to die,” The Frenchman searched his suit for his favorite lighter, and for his case of cigarettes, only to come up empty handed. "He was just a boy." 

"You're goddamn right." Sniper growled—a feral animal threatening to break through its cage. “You should’ve died.” 

Silence. The camper continued on, into the storm. And finally, Sniper couldn't take it. He pulled the camper off to the side of the road, into a small sandbar—and wildly, still gripped by rage, turned to Spy. 

"I oughta put a bullet in yer ‘ead." His voice was rendered almost a desperate whisper. Spy didn't move. 

"...I wouldn't mind, if I'm being honest," Spy lazily glanced at him, as if in a stupor. 

An exasperated sigh escaped Sniper's thin lips, and he blinked rapidly to keep the tears from pouring down his face. He brought a hand to his eyes, taking a sharp breath to keep control. 

"...I loved 'im." He admitted, barely able to speak through the unspeakable amount of grief clutching him by the throat. Spy, with wet eyes, nodded. 

"Me too." 

It was a quiet drive, the rest of the way—in the thirty-three hour trip, cramped in the rancid camper, there were no words exchanged, save for the occasional, “Stoppin’ for gas,” or “Light’s out” the couple of times they pulled into a rest stop, if only so they could regain their energy. It was safe to say that neither of them really got much sleep—and it just led to their silence swelling further and further with tension. All Spy could hope to do was stare at the ceiling of the camper, exhausted, attempting to take deep breaths if only to drown the screams he heard on that horrible, agonizing day. It was easy when the war was on—you always had noise to distract you. Chaos to keep you on your toes. 

But this? The empty silence? The settling dust? 

How despairing it all was. 

Because each time he relaxed, each time he let down his guard or even just looked into the mirror, he would see it. The rotting, grey face of the son he left behind. 

So when they finally arrived in Massachusetts, when they arrived into Suffolk county, Spy visibly tensed. Vaguely, the memories of all the trips he took out of and back into Boston resurfaced. No particular trip really came to mind—just the different routes he’d taken. But he was sure, this was the way he most commonly went back in the old days. 

His eyes avoided any windows, any mirrors they passed. He focused on the road, despite not being the one driving. The energy of their silence shifts. Mundy is the one to break it. 

“Where’s the house?” He pushed his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose, never bothering to be a witness to Spy’s discontent. 

“Keep going straight.” Spy’s voice, although naturally smooth, held the distinct, slight shake of a man barely holding himself together. “Then take a left at the upcoming stop sign. It will be the red house on the right side,”

Sniper obeyed. It was a pretty big place. No front yard, but Jeremy had mentioned there was a big backyard. Dominique swallowed thickly. Sniper pulled up along the sidewalk, parked, took a moment to breathe. 

“Ready?” was the first considerate question to come out of Sniper’s mouth since the ordeal just a few months prior. When he got no response, he shot a stern look at the other man. “We gotta go, Spy.” 

“...Okay.” He took off his seatbelt, as did Sniper, and they exited the vehicle with haste. Together, they walked up the walkway, up the tiny set of stairs adorned with pretty, potted plants.

There was no hiding the bags under his eyes. The paleness from lack of sleep. The extra greys that had manifested in his hair since the incident. Marie deserved to see his face, if nothing else. Sniper rang the doorbell, and the cheerful laugh of a woman could be heard on the other side of the door. And there she was. 

She hadn’t aged a day. Still gorgeous. Her azure eyes were big, doe-like, and her lips were painted red. There were only very faint lines around her mouth—otherwise, she looked just the same as she did, more than twenty years ago. Her face, though still smiling, held utter shock, upon seeing the familiar face of her partner. It took a moment for her to speak.

“Dominique—” Marie’s voice does not even miss a beat. As though she’d been waiting, patiently, for her lover to return for all these years. Her words were laced with an inexorable joy. “Well! This is a pleasant surprise! And here I thought you’d up and died,” the amused chuckle exited her lips, cheery, delightfully devious as it always had been. Mischievous little thing. 

Spy held a calm expression, as calm as he could manage. 

“Please, come inside. You too, Mr. uh…?”

“Mundy,” He can’t bring himself to raise her voice with the woman. He pulled off his hat and held it to his chest. “Please call me Mundy.” His parents had taught him to be polite, if he could, to folk. He entered the house upon being invited—and immediately, he was greeted with loud, terribly loud chatter from the living room, voices shouting over one another at the little television the family had. 

That’s right. He mentioned having seven brothers—the poor woman had to raise them all by herself, bless her heart—and how every thanksgiving, since they were probably all very young, all eight of them would watch the game, then go out and play together. A small, small smile touched his chapped lips. Then he saw the pictures on the walls. 

“So, Mundy—” The friendly woman flashed a grin at the Kiwi, bright, welcoming, never seeming to care how unkempt he seemed. Or how he needed a shower—she could only assume it had been a long, long drive, and neither had a chance, really, to take care of their hygiene. “How do you know my Jeremy? Or how about Dominique?” 

“Oh—” He cleared his throat. “We all worked together,” He couldn’t bear looking at those pictures of Jeremy on the wall. “Jeremy and I were close. He told me a lot about you—all good things.” 

“‘Were’?” a slight laugh exited her lips. “You're not friends anymore or somethin’? Is that why he ain’t here yet? I thought he would’a ridden with you, but I figured maybe he met someone and went to see her first.” 

Mundy’s eyes drifted over to Dominique for a moment. His stolid expression didn’t change, but Mundy knew. He knew, just by the change in the air around him, how much being in that house, hearing that name, left him without the ability to speak. 

“You wanna tell ‘er?” Mundy’s gaze trained on the Frenchman, expecting him, commanding him in silence to address his mistakes.    
  
“Tell me what?” The friendly look faltered, the smile falling as confusion crossed her place. “Dominique,” her voice took on a bit more concern than she would’ve liked to show. 

“Marie,” he hadn’t been able to even look at her before. Marie’s face fell entirely. Her stomach dropped. “Ma petit chou-fleur—” he glanced at the living room, where the boys were still watching football. 

“Tell her, Spy. Or I will,” 

“...I regret that I must inform you of this, my dear,” A soft gasp exited her lips, as though she knew precisely what he was about to say. She shook her head, as if to deny the truth. “The scout has died.” 

Marie was a strong woman—and she rarely cried. The sobs that wracked her body would always remain with Spy after the fact, regardless. But what he was not expecting was the wail. How she collapsed to the floor and wailed the most guttural, agonal wail he had ever heard. How her caterwaul commanded the attention of her sons. And poor Marie—she couldn’t even properly speak. No words, other than her deceased son’s name, broken up by the violent sobs. 

Sniper really wasn’t fond of seeing anyone cry—it was awkward if anything—and he would be lying to say that his aim was to make Jeremy’s mother break down in tears. But there was a part of him that felt the sick sense of satisfaction. Not at her tears, no—it was heart-wrenching to watch—but at the face the spy would make when he had to tell her. 

Was it worth it?

Yes. Entirely. The haunted, blank look in the Spy’s eyes was enough to feed the searing anguish Sniper had been infected with. The Kiwi did not smile. Did not say another word, save for the quiet condolences he spared Scout’s mother. 

He exited the house. Spy followed, some minutes later. The pair entered the van in silence, Spy haunted by those screams, fighting back the desperate, aching feelings of guilt welling in his chest. 

“Ready to go?” There’s no feeling in those words. No meaning. As if nothing at all happened. No response would come from the Frenchman. Not right away.

The sun was nowhere to be seen in the sky. It was clear, by then—he was still in that prison, in a figurative sense. He’d never left. It was stupid to think he  _ could  _ ever leave. That he would ever be anything more than what he’d become: the damaged, empty casing of who he once was. Filled with nothing but a bitter void, too debilitatingly guilty to handle existence any longer. 

“Ready.”

His hands trembled when he pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket. Trembled so hard, he almost couldn’t find the strength to light it. He turned his attention to the window, to the house he would be leaving for the truly final time, and for a moment, could swear he saw the boy. Standing in what he’d recognized to be his childhood bedroom, looking out the window. Looking...normal. No head wound or greyed skin. No decayed flesh with rotten teeth. As Sniper fiddled with his keys, attempting to get the engine to start, Spy could do nothing but stare.    
  
He was saying something. What was he saying? Spy strained his eyes, trying to make out those words. And when they finally came, he couldn’t control the tears that streamed down his face. 

_ Thanks for everything.  _

They pulled away from the curb, down the street, never to look back. Spy, in silence, lit the cigarette he’d taken out, blinking rapidly to make the tears go away. The world outside that van melted into the past. 

There was nothing left for him. Only the starry skies of Texas. 


End file.
